


Después (After)

by aguantare



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Angst, Future Fic, M/M, Unrequited
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-01
Updated: 2016-03-01
Packaged: 2018-05-24 01:51:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6137194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aguantare/pseuds/aguantare
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>2018 World Cup in Russia. A revelation and its aftermath.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Después (After)

**Author's Note:**

> Struggled with this. Like, a lot. But this is my escape from court hearings and brief writing and oral arguments, and part of me just needed some sort of emotional outlet after watching Liverpool lose to City on penalties. Sigh.
> 
> Don't know them, don't own them, don't sue me.

Neymar hears the balcony door slide open behind him, looks over. When he sees who it is, he turns back to the Sochi skyline, digs his hands in his pockets. His companion joins him at the edge of the balcony, but stands a couple feet away, farther than he ever has before. 

“I'm sorry,” Neymar says, balling his hands in fists inside his pockets.

“Sorry that you fell in love with me, or sorry that I found out?” Philippe's tone is hard to read. He doesn't sound angry, exactly, but he doesn't sound pleased either. Neymar can't really blame him. 

“Both, I guess,” he replies, not looking over at the man he's known, who's known him, since they were 14. 

Silence stretches between them.

“For what it's worth,” he says after a fashion, “I tried really hard not to let either of those things happen.”

Philippe lets out a long breath, and out of the corner of his eye, Neymar sees him lean forward to rest his forearms on the balcony railing. He lets himself look, finally, and there's a hunch in Philippe's shoulders, a cord of tension in his jawline that Neymar wants nothing more than to soothe away, but knows, deep down, that he's actually the cause of. 

“You can't really control it, I guess,” Philippe says. He pauses, then glances sideways, meeting Neymar's gaze. Neymar looks away, a little ashamed maybe, but mostly just resigned. 

“Timing sucks though,” Philippe adds, and Neymar winces, because it's true. If he could have picked any time for this to go down, it certainly wouldn't have been the night before their opening World Cup match in Russia. 

“I'm sorry,” he says again. 

More silence. 

“I'm...” Philippe finally speaks up again, “I don't--”

“I know,” Neymar cuts him off, a little harshly maybe. He pauses. “I know,” he amends, in a gentler tone. 

Philippe straightens up, and after a second or two, Neymar feels a hand on his arm. 

“Hey.” Philippe squeezes his arm until Neymar reluctantly looks at him. “I'm not going to tell anyone.” And whatever else he's feeling under the surface, whatever other emotions he's not letting Neymar see, his expression tells Neymar that this is sincere. 

“Thanks.”

Philippe tries for a smile. Fails, miserably. Neymar aches, has to turn away.

When he looks again, Philippe is gone. 

-

“You shouldn't have.”

“I didn't.”

“Bullshit, Dani. It was either you or Luis, and Luis is a thousand miles away in Moscow, so I know who my money's on.”

“Ever occur to you that maybe Couto figured it out on his own and just came looking for confirmation?”

“So you lie, Dani. It's not that hard.”

“Sure, because lying for the entirety of your adult life has been doing you so much good.”

“Fuck you.”

“...Sorry. Sorry, that was uncalled for.”

“Yeah. It was.”

“Sorry.”

“You could've...fuck, Dani, he could fuck me over. He could tank my whole fucking career if he ever wanted to.”

“He wouldn't.”

“Easy for you to say.”

“You want to trust me on this one? He doesn't have to be in love with you to care about you.”

-

They play Belgium in their first match. Neymar plays like shit. He plays so badly in fact, that the manager subs him off at 60 minutes, and Neymar can't really complain, because he knows he wasn't doing anything out there. 

There are a couple empty seats on the bench. One's next to Philippe. The other is further down the line between Danilo and Hulk. It's impulse, and maybe the irritation of being subbed off so early, that makes him bypass the seat next to Philippe, the one he'd usually take, especially after a shit game, and head for the one further away. 

He keeps his gaze carefully fixed forward, so he can't tell if Philippe watches him go or not. 

-

The day before their match against Togo, training is light. They play some small-sided games which rapidly turn into goof-off sessions, and the manager doesn't do much to reel them back in. For the final round, Neymar gets put on a team with Philippe. They haven't spoken since the Belgium match, and as they organize themselves into a pseudo-line up, Neymar finds himself standing next to Philippe. He glances over without really meaning to, but Philippe isn't looking at him. He's got one corner of his mouth tucked between his teeth, like he's deep in thought, and Neymar doesn't interrupt him. Doesn't know what he'd say.

Later, as the session winds down, the manager announces that it's last goal wins. Neymar's got the ball at his feet, and all he has to do is flick his eyes up, track Philippe's movement in between two defenders, and slide a neat little pass into his stride, nutmegging Danilo in the process. A cheer goes up as Philippe slots the ball into the net, and someone jumps on Neymar's back in celebration and Dani is shoving affectionately at the side of his head and calling him cheeky. And then Philippe is there, jostling against Neymar's shoulder, eyes crinkly with delight, and Neymar wants to throw an arm around his neck, pull him in for a hug, teammate to teammate, like he's done in the past, like he would have done a few months, even a few days ago. 

But he doesn't. Because he doesn't know if he's allowed to do that anymore.

-

It becomes a thing after that. Avoiding Philippe. Taking a seat at breakfast with Marcelo or Douglas Costa. Jogging pre-training laps with Dani. Grabbing Rafa as a stretching partner. There are evening FIFA sessions in various people's hotel rooms, which Neymar makes an appearance at, but doesn't stay too long.

_you think you're being so sneaky_ , Dani texts him after one of his early exits. Neymar doesn't answer him. 

_couto wants to know where you are_ , Dani adds a few minutes later. 

Neymar shuts his phone off. 

-

They go into their third match against Australia needing a win to ensure that they finish top of the group and avoid a possible match-up with the Netherlands. Philippe gets his first World Cup start ever, and as they head out into the tunnel to get lined up, Neymar nudges a knuckle into Philippe's shoulder to get his attention, careful not to let the touch linger for even a second too long. 

“Congratulations,” he says, offering a smile. Philippe looks at him for a long moment, doesn't smile back. His expression is unreadable.

“Thanks,” he replies just as the silence starts to stretch into awkwardness. Then he turns and walks away, and Neymar is left with a sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach.

-

Fifteen minutes from full time, Philippe gets the ball in space, turns his defender with ease and slips between two more Australian players converging on him. Neymar gauges his marker and the defense in a single glance and moves, breaking for the space in behind the Australian backline at the exact moment Philippe plays the through ball. The weight of the pass, the trajectory, the pace—it's all _perfect_. Neymar doesn't even have to break stride as he sweeps his right foot through the ball, side-footing it first time into the lower left hand corner.

He wheels away from the goal, turns so he's jogging backwards, picks Philippe out of the crowd of approaching teammates, points at him with both index fingers. He's not sure, after their pre-game exchange, how Philippe will react, but the Liverpool man is at least smiling a little as he ducks under Neymar's arms, wraps one arm around his mid-section in a quick hug. 

“Good goal,” he says.

As quickly as he's there, he's gone again, jogging back to their end of the pitch. Neymar leans into Dani, the defender patting his chest in approval and alternating between “good goal” and “take it easy, I'll kill you if you pick up an injury now,” and thinks maybe it'll all be okay, if he can still have this.

-

Of course it all goes to shit when they have to play Chile in the round of 16. Neymar's used to getting kicked by opponents, especially in a South American derby. And he's no idiot, he knows they do their own fair share of kicking anything that moves in games like these. 

But this time Chile are smart. They don't foul indiscriminately. They go after the midfield, systematically kicking Philippe, Oscar and anyone else who tries to make a purposeful move forward. The ref starts dishing out cards at the half hour mark, but Chile keep at it.

On eighty five minutes, Philippe intercepts an errant pass just inside Chile's half. A Chilean defender hauls him down before he can take more than a few steps. Philippe rolls to his feet and Neymar's momentary relief that he's not hurt is replaced almost instantly by shock when Philippe shoves the defender as he tries to get to his feet and then makes a movement with his right leg that looks suspiciously like an aborted kick. 

Apparently that's what it looks like to the ref too, because the red card is out of his pocket before Neymar can even get there. Philippe doesn't argue, just turns away and heads for the sideline. Neymar tamps down whatever scattered jumble of emotions he's feeling in favor of getting his teammates away from the ref and trying to get them back under control, but it's sort of like trying to stop a runaway train. Every coming together over the next three minutes produces a flare-up, and Chile go down a man too after their #15 takes a swing at Oscar. 

It's a blessing, really, when Chile's center back drags Rafa down inside the 18-yard box. Neymar steps up and dispatches the penalty, and relief comes in the form of the whistle three minutes later. 

-

The celebration in the dressing room is subdued. Neymar examines the rapidly forming bruises on his legs and ribs and arms as he showers, presses lightly on a particularly red mark just below his knee, hisses at the pain that it produces. 

He's one of the last ones out of the showers, and when he makes it back to the dressing area, there's only one person left, sitting fully dressed with his back to the room. Neymar catalogs the slump of Philippe's shoulders, the stillness, and knows he's upset. 

“Alright?” he asks as he moves across the room to his own locker. Philippe makes a short, sharp noise, like a laugh, but there's no humor in it.

“Asking because you care?” Philippe inquires, his tone hard, “Or just because you're obligated?”

And if Neymar was wondering whether Philippe had noticed his avoidance tactics over the last couple weeks, well. He isn't wondering anymore. He picks the captain's armband up from the bench, stuffs it in his bag so it's out of sight. 

“Couto--”

“No.” Philippe stands up abruptly, shoulders his bag. Turns to face Neymar, everything about his body language and his expression radiating tension, anger. The only words out of his mouth, however, are calm, collected. 

“I'm sorry I lost my temper,” he says, like he's talking to a coach or a teacher—an authority figure—not a friend, “I put the team in a bad position by making a stupid decision. It won't happen again.”

And then he leaves. 

-

Late evening finds Neymar standing on the balcony of his hotel room again, the streets of Kazan spread out twenty floors below him. The slide of a door behind him tells him he has company. He knows who it is without even having to look, and he doesn't drink, but this is one of those rare times where he thinks he could really use a shot or two.

Philippe leans against the balcony railing next to him, close enough this time that, after all his self-imposed distance, Neymar has to fight the almost instinctive urge to move away. He settles for turning around so his back is pressed against the railing, crosses his arms tight over his chest.

For a long time, Philippe doesn't say anything, and Neymar doesn't either; he doesn't know what to say. Eventually, Philippe speaks up.

“Is there some rule that if I don't love you back, we can't be friends anymore?”

His tone is cool, but underneath it there's a grace note of hurt, and Neymar hates that he's the one that put it there, even if he's not sure what he could have done to avoid it. 

“I'm just.” Neymar stops, draws in a sharp breath. “I didn't want to make you uncomfortable.”

Long silence. 

“You wouldn't.”

“Really.”

“Come on, what the hell, Ney, you think I'm some judgmental asshole who doesn't want you around me anymore?” 

“I don't know,” Neymar bites out before he can stop himself, “Are you?”

“Fuck you,” Philippe snaps, mouth twisting, disgusted, and even though it's not meant _that way_ , Neymar has to turn away because it's too similar, reminds him too much of other people who meant it in exactly that way. 

Another long silence. 

“I would never do that,” Philippe says eventually, sounding strained, “And also, you don't get to just push me away like this.” There's a ghost of a plea wrapped up in his words that's like a knife in Neymar's gut. 

“You don't get to pretend things can just go back to the way they were,” Neymar responds.

“Who's pretending?” Philippe shoots back with a pointed look. Neymar grits his teeth, uncrosses, recrosses his arms, looks down.

“Sometimes it's a necessity,” he says. 

He hears Philippe let out a sharp breath.

“Fuck,” Philippe mutters after a few seconds, “I want to be so angry at you, you know? For not telling me fucking _anything_. But then you say stuff like that and I remember we live in this world where people are shitty to each other because of who they want to be with.”

Neymar straightens up.

“You don't have to think about it all the time,” he points out, “Lucky you.”

Philippe sighs.

“Yeah.”

Pause. 

“Maybe I never gave you a reason to think I wouldn't be just another judgmental asshole, either,” he amends. 

Neymar lifts one shoulder in a half-shrug. 

“Why would you have felt the need to?” he asks, rhetorically.

Philippe doesn't speak for awhile, and when Neymar looks at him, he's staring out over the city. 

“Ney, I want to be friends,” he says, not moving, “Even if things aren't perfect. _Especially_ because they aren't perfect.”

Neymar shakes his head a little, a cord of something like pain pulling tight in his chest, because he wants that too, he wants the close, reliable friendship that he's always had with Philippe, but right now the hurt and embarrassment is too fresh, too new, too open and raw. Truth be told, he doesn't know if they can ever really go back to being friends, because deep down, he knows that now, any time they celebrate a goal together, any time they rough house on the training pitch, any time he makes a joke that could be misconstrued, there will always be that little question mark in the back of Philippe's mind about Neymar's motivations, about his intentions. And he doesn't know how to deal with that, how to make that not be so.

“I don't...” Philippe hesitates, drops his head between his shoulders for a moment or two before continuing, “I don't have to be in love with you to need you.”

Neymar _aches_. 

“I know,” he says helplessly, almost winded with the realization of how much this could cost him, “It's just that I am. In love with you, I mean. And I need to figure out how to not be before. Before anything else.”

-

Philippe gives him space, after that. It's exactly what Neymar knows he needs. Dani asks him, quietly, if he and Philippe had a falling out, and Neymar tells him no. But later, when Neymar walks into Rafa's hotel room for some FIFA, and Philippe barely acknowledges him, he figures that they might as well have fallen out, because the end result is the same.

-

They lose to Argentina in the quarters. Neymar gives it everything he has, but it's still not enough, and when the final whistle blows, he just sits down on the pitch, physically and emotionally spent. Leo comes over, crouches down in front of him. 

“Get up,” Leo says, not unkindly. Neymar just sort of looks at him. He's so tired, all of a sudden.

“What if I don't want to?” he asks. He knows he sounds young, petulant, but can't really bring himself to care all that much. Leo pats his cheek, his expression sympathetic. Then he straightens up, holds out both hands.

“Come on,” he says, “Get up, Ney.”

Neymar reaches out, lets Leo pull him to his feet and walk him to the sidelines, one arm around his shoulders. Just before releasing him so he can escape down the tunnel, Leo pulls Neymar towards him, kisses his forehead. 

“You'll be alright,” he says, squeezing the back of his neck, “See you back in Barcelona.”

Neymar nods, turns to head for the tunnel. Sees Philippe watching them. Their eyes meet, and Philippe turns away.

Neymar strips off his jersey, bunches it up to wipe the sweat off his face. 'Alright,' he thinks, is a relative term, but hopefully, whatever 'alright' means, he'll be that. Eventually. 

-

The sting of Russia fades relatively quickly for him. He goes back to Barcelona first, then spends a couple weeks in Brazil. He watches Argentina beat the Netherlands 2-1 to lift the World Cup in Moscow and feels genuinely happy to see Leo standing up there on the podium, holding that coveted trophy, the one that everyone said he needed to win. 

July turns into August, and he goes back to training a few days early, mostly because sitting around at home with nothing to do gives him too much time to think about other things. On day two, he wanders into the gym early and runs into Luis.

“Bike?” Luis asks, and Neymar shrugs in agreement, follows his fellow striker over to the stationary bikes. They exchanged a few texts during the World Cup, and after, but they haven't talked a lot in person since before Russia. As they clamber onto the bikes, Luis shoves Neymar in the shoulder, trying to make him lose his balance, and Neymar swipes at him in retaliation. 

“Dickhead,” he grumbles, keying in the resistance settings on the bike.

“Missed you too,” Luis replies, sounding delighted. He has his phone in one hand, and as he starts pedaling, he fiddles with the screen, pulling something up. Neymar doesn't pay much attention until Luis slides the phone onto the console in front of him. 

“What--” On the screen, there's a thumbnail of a video. It's nondescript, but the title of the video is _'entrevista com coutinho.'_

“Come on, Luis--” Neymar picks up the phone to hand it back, but Luis clicks his tongue at him, gestures for him to keep it.

“Just watch it,” he says. Neymar glances around the gym, sees that there's no one else around. Shoots Luis another Look before hitting the play button on the screen. 

The interview's in Portuguese, but the icon in the upper corner shows that it comes from the BBC. 

“When was this?” Neymar asks, as the interviewer inquires about an upcoming European qualifier. 

“Just a couple days ago,” Luis replies. 

The interviewer's asking about Russia now, and about Brazil's earlier than expected exit. Even on the slightly grainy internet video, Neymar can see the way Philippe's expression shutters, closes off. 

“ _It was a difficult time_ ,” Philippe says, “ _In some ways, Argentina versus Brazil was the match you would want to see in the final, you know, Neymar versus Messi, rather than in the round of 16, but that's just the way it goes, and on that day, they were better than us_.”

“ _You and Neymar played together on Brazil's youth teams_ ,” the interviewer says, “ _Was it good to be reunited with him on the World Cup stage, the biggest stage of all_?”

“ _I think anyone would be grateful to play on the same team as him_ ,” Philippe responds, “ _He elevates everyone around him and he's one of the best players in the world, so of course it's a privilege to share a pitch and a dressing room with him_.”

“ _Would you say you're good friends_?” the interviewer prods. On the video, Philippe pauses, looking down for a second or two. 

“ _He's a really good person_ ,” he answers, “ _I think maybe people, including myself, don't fully understand the sacrifices he's made to get where he is, and some of the costs he had to pay personally. People can say whatever they want, you know, about him as a player, but off the pitch, he always tries to do right by other people. Even at his own expense._ ”

The interviewer moves on then, and there's about two minutes left of the video, but Neymar pauses it, doesn't need to see any more. He hands Luis' phone back, avoids looking his teammate in the eye.

“Have you talked to him?” he asks, instead focusing on the console as he ups the resistance on his bike. 

“Yeah.”

“And?” Neymar isn't entirely sure what the answer is going to be, or whether he's going to like it. 

“...and I think he'd like to hear from you,” Luis says after a second or two, crossing his arms over his chest, “If you're ready.”

Neymar grunts noncommittally.

“And if I'm not?”

“If you're not,” Luis acknowledges, and his tone is gentle, gentler than anyone outside Barcelona and maybe Liverpool could ever believe, “Then maybe he still deserves to know that, at least.”

-

That night, after dinner, Neymar types out a text to Philippe, and sends it before he can second guess himself. He intentionally makes it vague enough that if someone—especially, god forbid, Aine—were to see it, it wouldn't immediately set off any alarm bells.

_i don't know when i'll be ready_

He purposely leaves his phone in the living room while he shuffles upstairs to take a shower. When he comes back down afterward, there's a message waiting for him in reply. Something loosens in his chest, just a little, as he reads it.

_I'll be here when you do_


End file.
